


Abimee

by jattendrai



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Modern Setting, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jattendrai/pseuds/jattendrai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's so easy to forget the world around you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abimee

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to Chell's here http://archiveofourown.org/works/4486794
> 
> also who knows if this makes sense I had a small timeframe to write this so

He’s seen it all before in his dreams, but all his dreams taught him was to run away from what he saw.

How can you run away from your own imagination? The thoughts and figures you yourself force to see. Maybe he really wasn’t himself.

The medication is nice.

Everything seems to warp into the white pristine walls of Aperture, with the clipping of heels on the perfect reflection of the tiles turning his reflexes on full alert. It was like he was trained to know when his treats would come, like a sick dog stumbling for just one more taste of relief that came from the plastic bottles, the ones with his name sliding across it on yellow lines.

But it was just the morning nurses coming to wake him up, the hall was made of carpet, and there was nothing to fear. They took his blood pressure, tapped the portable EKG, fed him his dose in a cup, and left quietly.

They didn't let him keep the Cube. The weight and size of it was an apparent hazard, and it took all they could to rip it away from him; without that guiding voice, he felt lost for days. Nothing was there to pierce the silence of the room, to lend him a hand in escaping, to keep him on track. But they promised him they were doing what the cube did for him, and soon the room wasn't quiet anymore; he was able to touch reality again.

They offered back some of his clothes once they were washed and press, but he refused.

It was easy to forget the world around you.

Breakfast is always at six o’clock.

Sadly, most of those that were once inhabiting the rooms around him left, and all that was left was him and a little girl, maybe around fourteen. She always slept on the other side of the doors, though.

Doug found the food enjoyable. No beans, no milk; just coffee and toast, with some bacon or cereal if he’s really feeling up to it. Sometimes it takes all his will to hold back tears of joy.

Of joy... joy….

Nothing much happens between breakfast and lunch. A physical therapist sees him at Eight o’clock sharp, and together they do “relaxing workouts”. She was a nice lady, the instructor; black mess of hair pulled back, face marked by sunspots and a curious scar near her lip. She often complimented Doug on his willingness. 

 

Eleven-thirty, and he’s given his paints.

There’s a rule that a patient must not have belongings that will cause harm, so they make a nurse watch him paint. Usually it was a rather short man with pink cheeks and long hair, but nowadays it’s an older woman with boxbraids and what he can assume is the world’s biggest collection of solar system pins on one breast pocket. 

What would start off as simple strokes of yellow would soon swirl into a horrible getaway from the shed -- the place he once called Aperture -- kicking his legs across the endless waves of grain. His heart pounded and pulled at the wound, tugging his throat in humid gasps for the water kept overhead; thick, low clouds carried him all the way to civilization.

And there he would be, with nothing more but a few strokes of yellow, pressing his head into his hands and asking for the paints to go away.

It’s become troubling to do anything but think of it. It even ruined the paint.

 

Lunchtime is a bit better. They usually give Doug a brownie for the side dessert, since his longing for cake now grew in disgust. He ate quietly. Sometimes he was allowed to watch TV.

The Golden Girls weren’t funny.

 

Three o’clock was therapy with a funny-looking nurse who always forgot Doug’s name. She liked to play Scrabble with him, but when she brings the girl over they play Apples to Apples. 

Doug found a fond sense of care for the girl, the one who wore an assortment of rubber wristbands of what he could guess were bands. She never spoke, and neither did Doug.

But ocassionaly she’d throw a glance his way. Just a glance, and nothing more.

 

Seven o’clock was dinner -- oh, the food came in a cart. He never noticed. It was boxed and metal and would drag down the carpet with resistant wheels.

Dinner was good sometimes. Chicken and rice with gravy. No coffee this time, but instead water.  
He could only finish half of it.

Lights were out by ten, but the clock seemed so estranged by it. It felt like hours he spent on the couch, in the tiny dayroom where he painted, stretched, ate, and played games in. Everything was clean in here.

Nobody came for him during visiting hours. 

Unsurprising.

Ten o’clock finally swung around, and once again the nurse was back with his medication. The machine sucked and wheezed as the numbers dialed up, the pill was swallowed, and he was left to sleep.

City lights poured into the far distance corner of his window. The light under the vent came to life, and soon Doug found himself slowly easing onto the bed. It hurt to lay down on something soft, and he often woke up, sore and aching --- but he didn’t mind.

Doug still dreamed of Chell. Of her living off better than him, maybe with friends and a lover. Kids, or a dog maybe. His last thoughts were always prayers to her, though he worshipped no God, and his last thoughts are of her, smiling and happy.

But it was nothing but fleeting. Who knows where she could be. Wherever she was, Doug hoped she was far better off than him.

But the hospital was nice. It was nice because it wasn’t Aperture.

He hoped.


End file.
